


And So He Waits

by ExploretheEcccentricities



Series: Or So They Thought [2]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Claustrophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Quirin's not really a jerk ok, The description of implied abuse is kind of brief and has a warning, There's an unnamed guard but I don't know if that counts as an original character, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities
Summary: How he waited to show he could stand tall. How he wished he didn't have to get up after each fall.(Sort of a prequel. The very end is the context for the story "And So He Left," so I recommend reading that too. Read author's note.)THIS IS DARK. There isn't that much graphic description of the things happening, just a summary of the aftermath. Heavy implications. If you can't stand the things in the tags AT ALL (like not even implied), please don't read. If you do want to read it nevertheless, you can skip the specific part (at the beginning of which there is a warning). I guess it's possible for you to understand the next work without this one.  No flames please. :)
Series: Or So They Thought [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639714
Comments: 15
Kudos: 123





	And So He Waits

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you all for your wonderful comments on my previous stories!  
> I'm so sorry for the late update. I've been out of sorts lately. but I know I promised that the next update wouldn't take too long. I'm probably not going to leave for that long again.  
> This starts during Varian’s time in prison during Season 2 and ends shortly after the first episode of the third season, Rapunzel's Return. The very end is also the context for the story before this, "And So He Left."  
> All grammatical and other "errors" (like redundancy and changing tense) were intentional. Sorry if it's confusing or sloppy.  
> This is NOT very canon compliant. The show doesn't actually have this kind of cruelty or abuse, and I'm sure none of the characters are actually this bad. Nothing in this fanfic is ok, and no one in it is actually ok. :) Happy reading. Just know I hurt them because I love them. :)

Varian waits for the first beams of the new day to scintillate across the horizon and over the slumbering world, rising into the sky with wistful bliss.

He waits for the burning ache in every inch of his being to subside. He waits for the strength to get back up again.

He waits for the returning realization, the pit of hopelessness and despair that today will be a day not so different from yesterday, nor tomorrow.

He watches as the advisor slams the door open.

Nigel barks at him, clanking the bars of the dungeon with his clipboard loudly, his nasally voice heightened demandingly and thin with impatience. A few people are with him, people assigned and paid to "supervise" him specifically.

They cautiously watch as Varian slowly struggles to get on his feet despite the uncontrollable tremble in his figure and the unmistakable limp in his faltering steps.

They grab ahold of the chains and force him out of the cell to begin the day.

Varian keeps his head bowed, less out of duty and more out of sheer fright as he mechanically follows, the long strides of those holding his chains yanking painfully against his raw wrists and taunting him with every clank-knowing full well what was to come.

They’ll put him outside first. They’ll cynically whisper and jeer, keeping their distance yet watching him like a merciless hawk as he struggles to lift the impossibly heavy bricks for the giant wall. They’ll watch as he winces and hisses with every grueling tug of a rope or swing of the rake while stumbling over the clades of pavement, panting and groaning under the burning glare of the sun and the king of the kingdom of the sun.

Then, as though to appear merciful, they’ll drag him inside and watch him hit the perfectly polished floor on his aching knees, bent over his own reflection yet unable to see it through the blur of tears. They’ll watch him exhale sharply with every movement that flexes his sore back, his pale hands shakily squeezing the wet rags from the cleaning bucket with futile determination and hope as he puts everything into every stroke-as though this cold water on the cold floor could wipe away the unbearable sight that _is_ his reflection-the manifestation of everything he is and deserves, everything he has done.

Suddenly, today, Varian feels overwhelmed. The weight of the world threatens to throttle and drown him, the exhaustion and endless anxiety crippling him with debilitating nausea as he struggles to find light against the crashing waves that threaten to pull him under. He feverishly grasps the petrifying doubt that uncertainty brought, the even more agonizing certainty of what tomorrow would bring.

Then he collapses, bursts into tears as he feels the grating impact of his bruised palms against the wet floor, the cold and unforgiving glares strangling his wordless, empty cries because he knows he has nothing to say. They won’t hear it. They never have.

They’re still watching, of course. It’s time for their good deed of the day.

The brutal agony of the first strike from the whip sears into his flesh and tears a scream from him unexpectedly, a different kind of wail with a different kind of pain as he doubles over, the sore back now ablaze with the excruciating pulse of an angry, fresh lash that matches the admonishing clamor of the people around him. It continues, his ears ringing with his own cries of pain and the strident shouting that wanted to encompass him, trap him, smother him completely. His mind slowly registers being dragged like a rag doll, tossed carelessly where his cheekbone impacts the wall and he wheezes with every undulating wave of newfound anguish.

The king towers above him. The inevitable awaited.

He watches as the advisor slams the door shut.

_“Just give me until my dad returns. Everything is going to be ok, I promise.”_

…

**(*WARNING: Implications from tags. Graphic description of feelings related to the abuse. If you don't want to read it, skip ahead to the next ellipses or large space.)**

He watches as a guard slams the door open.

The brute shares a conspiratorial smirk with the guard who was supposed to be watching him, dropping a small bag of something into the man’s open palm.

Varian has realized after quite a few of these ‘sessions’ that the guard was not meant to protect him, but protect others from him. Had he known before, he would not have fought and wailed and screamed the entire night, expecting someone to help. He wouldn’t have, because they won’t hear it. They never have.

Suddenly, today, Varian feels indignant.

He fights again. He fights and fails and wails and screams again.

Varian is punished by being pinned against the dirty floor, throttled to the point that spots dance before his eyes, his every limb tingling with sheer trepidation yet heavily numb, unable to move or curl in onto himself as he so desperately wished to. The frigid draft from the ever-open barred window bursts in and clings to the blood-soaked, tattered remains of his shirt. His back is on fire, and the floor is cold. He weeps in horror and despair through it all, throat clogged as words seep away from his tongue, which swam with a sour metallic tang. He wishes he could stop breathing for good-he wishes that the guard did good and actually finished him, that the king did some good and executed him, that he did good for once and finish himself.

The guard towers over him. The inevitable awaited.

He watches as the guard slams the door shut.

_“I promise.”_

…

**(SCENE OVER)**

He watches as his father slams the door open.

The first time Varian has come back to his house alone with his father since the incident-or rather, series of incidents-is not nearly as cathartic or relieving as he had once hoped it to be. Quirin had spent the past week resting and recovering at the palace following his release from the amber, and Varian had occupied himself with rushing this way and that, tending to his every need. It pains Varian to no end that his father found out about the truth from the king himself- and in front of him.

Suddenly, today, Varian feels hopeless.

The suffocating ache in his chest claws at his insides to allow the turbulent cascade of mind-numbing nausea and self-reproach out-to fall in pain as he always had and for once, not bother to get back up at all. To smother the flippant and faint glimmer of hope that sets his heart alight, that used to bring back his breath after every horrid beating and wipe away his tears after every sleepless night. To exacerbate the torment that is his every breath, every attempt of his heaving lungs and flailing soul to believe that the next moment cannot possibly be worse. It’s a greater, more painful stretch to believe that it can ever get better.

“I’m not going.” He whispers for the fear that his voice will crack and his strength will falter.

“You must, Varian.” Quirin speaks neutrally, his voice straining to remain clam and low. “The King provided a few options, and this is the deal.”

Varian blinks back tears, inhaling a shuddering breath before managing in a weak voice “I don’t want to go.”

“Did I ask you what you want?” Quirin suddenly snaps, the harsh rasp of the phrase clawing its way through Varian’s dwindling hope and searing straight into his aching heart. Quirin speaks in a freshly renewed fit of rage. “Varian, do you think-after all that has happened…after all you have done, you get to have a say in any of this?”

Varian inhaled shakily again, frantically scrambling for an apology of sorts-a way out. “D-Daddy…” He whispered, his voice weak with grief and trembling with the same petrifying uncertainty that had haunted his dark world since the day he had been thrown into prison. “I didn’t- I got better. I promise. I’m getting better. _I promise_.”

The word flows mellifluously over his tongue, apathetically, as though he has learned that it has no weight and no effect.He really doesn’t expect it to.

“I’m free after a year, only to find everyone avoiding the chance of telling me you became a criminal! The good king even offered to send you to an asylum instead of a full prison sentence!” Quirin’s voice gradually rises with an almost hysteric despair, more unsettled than furious now. It causes Varian to jolt in shock and distress as he frantically tried to shield himself from his father's angry glare, stumbling to salvage what is left of his weaning hope.

Varian’s eyes trace his father’s every feature, fixating onto every minuscule detail but his eyes, latching onto his every word, scrambling desperately for something to refute above the ostensible roar of blood in his ears. He is unaware that he is shocked speechless, that he doesn’t respond to his father’s accusations or notice the hot tears spilling on his cheeks, unconscious to anything except his father’s words.

His wrists are ablaze with the remnants of the shackles and his back throbs with each pulse, but it does not stop him from cowering and clasping one hand over the other wrist in a nervous tick, nearly hunching over and bowing his head because he knew if he did that _they wouldn’t hurt him. They couldn’t hurt him, they shouldn’t be able to hurt him…he had done everything he could. He shouldn’t still be hurting._

“But-but I served my time. I did whatever they asked, I promise.”

“After which you joined a gang of criminals hellbent on destroying Corona.” Quirin’s tone is icy and low with suspicion, the glare accusatory as it bears down mercilessly upon Varian. It corners him, like walls of his cell-a cold, dark abyss that has no bottom, no direction except down into a chasm of nothingness. 

“But I’m not crazy. _I promise_.”

A staggering pause, then a soft, disbelieving voice. “You attempted regicide.” It was breathless, robbed of all doubt and freshly cutting with realisation. “Varian, _you tried to kill innocent people_! And _every one_ of them confirmed it! Who am I to believe?”

“Believe me! I’m your son!”

Another deafening silence ensues, more thin with anticipation and unspoken doubts than the first.

His heart pounds in his ears, his throat constricts as his raw emotion rages through, and now Varian truly feels like his body was going to do what it should have a long time ago and cut off his breathing, for real and forever.

Then Quirin slowly turns his head, his face twisting into a forlorn, disappointed scowl, the crinkles of his eyes and the furrow of his brows deep with unhidden sorrow and a more vulnerable feeling that shatters Varian’s world despite the many times he has faced it himself: mistrust.

“I-I don’t even know what you are, Varian.”

Varian senses nothing but the tension and dismay in every syllable of Quirin’s words, steaming like an iron poker and twisting viciously into his heart as though it wants to carve out his very soul and relish in how it slowly disintegrated. The blazing sting of tears makes everything seem nebulous, blurs in a haze of color that he can’t distinguish as his world spins and every limb in his being heavies, wanting to double over, curl onto himself, hit the floor hard enough, just right enough…

Suddenly, Varian wonders if he will ever see the soft, caring gleam in his father’s eyes again, cascading amongst a whirlwind of terror and determination when Quirin’s concerned eyes had only landed on him, and him alone. All hope for the loving gleam, the opening of the door, _any_ chance he could make up for whatever he had done now, coruscates like flashes from a dying sunset. The cold darkness threatens to consume him once more.

And then, the staggering realization cuts his breath short.

The man towers over him.

For a fleeting minute, Varian's eyes don't register the shock and regret in Quirin's eyes, the softened expression as the man reaches an arm out- _a very large and very strong arm that could very easily hurt_ _him_. And in that moment, Varian isn't at home, with his father. Varian is back with the king and the advisor and the guards, hunched over the floor as the blood from his back slowly mixed with the soapy water and stained his reflection, helplessly sprawled against the grimy ground of his dark cell as he waited for another sun to rise and another pain to bear. God, _he has to get out-_

Without another moment to spare, Varian turns his heel and sprints properly for the first time since he had set foot into that awful blizzard, on that fateful day that his world had been turned inside out. He runs, on those aching heels and stumbling legs despite how his lungs screamed for him to stop and strained to breathe, up the stairs and to his room, throwing open the door and slamming it with all he had.

Varian trembles uncontrollably, breathless sobs interspersed with wordless whimpers of anguish and distress. He wasn't ever going to be alright, _nothing was ever going to be alright_. This is where he belongs. It is cold, and dark, and no one could hurt him. He is back where he belongs.

Back where he can't see any light or feel any hope, back within walls erected to confine and subdue him, to contain the menace that was his existence and limit the poison that was his presence so that the King didn’t scowl and Nigel didn’t tattle and the guard didn't touch him but _Rapunzel didn’t come and Dad wasn’t there and he was never going to get out get me out get me out please-_

He's back where he doesn't have to face a truth harsher than his hope and more permanent than the reality he had wished to create.

Varian violently fights the compulsive urge to throw the door open, rush back and launch himself without thinking into his father's arms-or even just jump onto his father, if the man wouldn't willingly hug him.

Tomorrow would be no different. It never has been.

Varian decides he would not wait for tomorrow to come.

He can wait for the inevitable, for someone to open the door for him again.

But that someone would have to open it, give him false hope, run him into the earth and drag back a sobbing heap of useless only to _throw him away-throw him in-throw him out_.

And he could not wait for them, he _wouldn't_. They would never come.

With a horrible, animalistic cry of finality, bursting with rage and self-loathing, Varian locked the door and pounded at it with the small ounce of strength he had left in his quivering, aching fists.

He doesn't deserve to be trusted. He doesn't deserve to be free. He has to- he _wants_ to be locked up again. He wants to stay where it was familiar, where it hurt, where he knows he deserves to be- _where he belongs_.

Varian trudges to the windowsill and detachedly watches as his bony hands open the window gently, not expecting nor feeling anything.

And so he waits.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Well, now you know what I do with my weekends.  
> Stay tuned for the next work! Should be out in a week or less. I'll tell you if I ever intend to delay.


End file.
